Transendence
by textsfromthewardrobe
Summary: Margaret Reese Gilbert is a descendent of Elric Gilbert, one of the men responsible for the witch trials—and almost immediately, upon her arrival to Spenser Academy, she becomes the enemy of a group of boys who call themselves the Sons of Ipswich. If any town should have learned its lesson, it's Ipswich. But history may be about to repeat itself. AU.
1. 1131 Blackbird Lane

**|Reese|**

Like most fast-talking, opinionated New Yorkers, I have an affinity for sarcasm. At seventeen, though, it's hard to convince anyone that sarcasm's a cultural thing and not a bad attitude. Especially when your step-mother can _not_ drive, because she's also from New York, and spills your coffee with maniacal brake pounding.

I wipe a dribble of hazelnut latte off my chin. "It's okay. Don't worry about it. I _love_ wearing my coffee."

Andrea keeps her and poised over the horn, like a cat waiting to pounce. "All your clothes have holes in them. Coffee isn't your problem."

If it's possible for someone to never have an awkward moment, socially or otherwise, then that someone is my step-mother, Andrea Gilbert. When I was little, I admired her ability to charm roomfuls of people. Maybe I thought it would rub off on me - an idea I've since given up on. She's perfectly put together in a way that I will never be, and my vegan leather jacket and torn black jeans drive her crazy. So now I just take joy in wearing them to her dinner parties. _Gotta have something, right?_

"My problem is, I don't know when I'll see dad," I say, staring out at the well-worn New England homes, with their widow's walks and dark shutters.

Andrea's lips tighten. "We've been through this a _hundred_ times, Reese. They will transfer him to Gloucester Medical Center within the next three weeks."

"Which is still half-an-hour away from Ipswich." This is the sentiment I've repeated since I found out a month ago that we had to sell our New York apartment - the same apartment I've spent my entire life in.

"Would you rather live in New York and not be able to pay your father's medical bills? We have no idea how long he'll be in that coma, honey."

 _Three months, twenty-one days, and ten hours. That's how long it's already been._

We pass a row of witch-themed shops with dried herbs and brooms filling their windows. "They really love their witches here," I murmur, ignoring Andrea's last question.

"This is one of _the_ most historical towns in America Your relatives played a major role in that history."

I slouch down in the passenger seat. "My relatives hanged witches in the sixteen hundreds. Not exactly something to be proud of."

But in truth, I'm really curious about this place, with its cobblestone alleys and eerie black houses. We pass a police car with a witch logo on the side. As a kid, I tried every tactic to get my dad to bring me here, but he wouldn't hear of it. He'd say that nothing good ever happens in Ipswich and the conversation would end. There's no pushing my dad.

A bus with a ghost-tour ad pulls in front of us. Andrea jerks to a stop and then tailgates. She motions to the ad. "There's nice provincial job for you."

I crack a smile. "I don't believe in ghosts."

We make a right onto Blackbird Lane, the street on the return address of the cards my grandmother sent me as a child.

"Well, you're the only one in Ipswich who feels that way." I don't doubt she's right.

For the first time during this roller coaster of a car ride, my stomach drops in a good way. Number 1131 Blackbird Lane, the house my dad grew up in - it's a massive, two-story, white building with black butters and columned doorways. The many peaks of the roof are covered with dark wooden shingles, weathered from the salty air. A wrought-iron fence with pointed spires surrounds the perfectly manicured lawn.

"Just the right size," Andrea says, eyeing our new home.

The red-bricked driveway is uneven with age and pushed up by tree roots. Andrea's silver sports car jostles us as we make our way through the black arched gate and roll to a stop.

"Ten people could live here and never see each other," I remark in awe.

"Like I said, just the right size."

I pull my hair into a messy bun at the crown of my head and grab the heavy duffel bag at my feet. Andrea is already out of the car, and her heels click against the brick. She makes her way toward a side door with an elaborate overhang.

I take a deep breath and open my car door. Before I get a good look at our new home, a neighbor comes out of her blue-on-blue house and waves enthusiastically.

" _Hellooo!_ Well, hello there!" she says with a smile bigger than I've ever seen on a stranger, as she crosses a patch of lawn to get to our driveway.

She has rosy cheeks and a frilly white apron. She could have stepped out of a housekeeping magazine from the 1950's. "Margaret," she says, and beams. She holds my chin to inspect my face. "Sam's daughter."

"Uh, I go by Reese - my middle name. Everyone calls me that."

"Nonsense. That's a _boy's_ name. Now, aren't you pretty! A little on the skinny side, though." She steps back to get a proper look. "We'll fix that in no time." She laughs a full, tinkling laugh.

I smile, even though I'm not sure she's complimenting me. There's something infectious about her happiness. She examines me, and I cross my arms self-consciously. My duffel bag falls off my shoulder, jerking me forward. I trip.

"Ethan!" she bellows toward her blue house without saying a word about my clumsiness. A red-headed boy who looks about my age exits the side door just as I get hold of the duffel strap. "Come take Margaret's bag."

As he gets closer, his red hair flops into his eyes. _Green._ One corner of his moth tilts in a half smile. I stare at him, taking in his boyish features and the innumerable amount of freckles that smatter his face.

The boy called Ethan reaches for the bag, now awkwardly hanging from my elbow.

I re-position it onto my shoulder. "No, it's fine."

"This is my son, Ethan. Isn't he adorable?" She pats him on the cheek.

"Mom, really?" Ethan protests.

I smile at them. "So, you know my dad?"

"Of course! And I knew your grandmother. Took care of her and the house when she got older. I know this place inside and out." She puts her hands on her hips.

Andrea approaches, faintly smiling. "Mrs. Beal, I presume? We spoke on the phone. I'm Andrea Gilbert." She pauses. "You have the keys to the house?"

"Sure do." Mrs. Beal reaches into her apron pocket and retrieves a set of skeleton keys rubbed smooth in places from years of use. She glances at her watch. "I've got chocolate croissants coming out of the oven any minute now. Ethan can give you a tour of -"

"No, that's alright. We can show ourselves around." There's definitely a finality to Andrea's response. She doesn't trust overly friendly people. We had a doorman once who used to bring me treats, and Andrea got him fired.

"Actually," I speak up, "do you know which room used to be my dad's?"

Mrs. Beal lights up. "It's all ready for you. Up the stairs, take a left, all the way down the hall. Ethan will show you."

Andrea turns around without a goodbye. Ethan and I follow her to the door.

Ethan watches me curiously as we go inside. "I've never seen you here before."

"That's because I've _never_ been here before."

"Even when your grandmother was alive?" He closes the door behind us with a click.

"I've never met my grandmother." It's weird to admit that.

In the front foyer are piles of boxes - all of our personal belongings from the City. Andrea sold everything heavy when she found out this place was already furnished.

We step past the boxes and into an open open space with glossy wooden floors, a wrought-iron chandelier, and giant staircase. Andrea's heels clack somewhere down the hallway to the left - a sound that follows her around like a shadow. As a child, I could always find her by listening for it, even in a roomful of women in high heels. I wouldn't be surprised if she slept in those shoes.

I take it in our home for the first time. Paintings in gold frames on the walls, separated by sconces with bulbs shaped like candles. Everything's antique and made of dark wood, the opposite of our modern apartment in NYC. _This is some fairy-tale storybook business,_ I think, looking at the curved staircase with its smooth wooden banisters and Oriental rug running up the middle.

"This way." Ethan nods toward the staircase. He lifts my bag off my shoulder and starts up the stairs.

"I could've carried that myself."

"I know. But I wouldn't want you to fall again. Stairs do more damage than driveways."

 _So he definitely saw me trip._

He smirks at my expression.

I follow Ethan, holding the banister in case my clumsiness makes a second appearance.

Ethan turns left at the top of the stairs. We pass a bedroom with a burgundy comforter and a canopy that any little girl would go crazy over. After the bedroom, there's a bathroom with a giant claw-foot tub and a mirror with a gold-plated frame.

He stops at the end of the hall in front of a small door that looks like it could use a fresh coat of paint. The doorknob is shaped like a flower with shiny brass petals. _A daisy, maybe?_ I twist it, and the wood groans as the door swings open.

I gasp.

"Like it?" Ethan asks. "My mom was over here all week moving this furniture in and fixing it up for you."

To my right is a dark wooden bed whose four posts are carved with flowers, a matching flower-carved vanity with a marble top, and a delicate nightstand with an old lamp made of yellow glass. Directly in front of me is an armoire. _I love armoires_. Next to my bed is a small white rug for cold mornings. And overlooking the front lawn is a window seat with white lace cushions.

"It's a real dump," I say.

Ethan laughs, and an approving smile crosses his face. _Thank God someone else gets my humor._

I run my hand along the ivory lace bedspread and down comforter. My black duffel bag looks unsophisticated in comparison with these antiques balanced on sloping wooden floors.

Unsure of what to say next, I pull my lip gloss from my pocket and pop off the cap. This is the longest conversation I've had with someone my own age in years.

Ethan lifts my bag off his shoulder. "Where do you want this?"

"I'll take it." I reach out to grab the strap. But I misjudge his movement, and instead of smoothly lifting the bag out of his grip, as I intended, I smear my open lip gloss on his hand.

He stops and grins. "Pink isn't really my color."

"Sorry!" I say quickly. "I don't usually attack people with my lip gloss."

 _What the hell am I saying?_

All I can think to do is wipe it off with my hand, which I do awkwardly - more of a swat than a wipe, really. His grin widens. He puts my duffel bag down and grabs a tissue from my vanity.

Ethan lifts my hand with the strawberry-flavored smear on it. He turns my palm up and lightly runs the tissue over it.

"It's not gonna break," I retort. "My hand, I mean... It's not gonna break."

"I'd rather not take my chances."

His confidence is starting to really frustrate me. He's hogging it all and should really leave some for the rest of the planet.

He looks from my hand to my face. "Who knows what you'll attack me with next."

I offer a dry laugh, though my smile is genuine. "Has anyone told you how _funny_ you are?"

"From time-to-time," he remarks, shrugging. "See you around, new girl."

Ethan disappears down the hall lit by small lamps, and for the first time since my dad got sick, I actually feel like I may have a friend.

* * *

 **A/N** : The Sons of Ipswich will make their grand appearance in this next chapter! :)

I absolutely adore the concept of this movie and its characters, but I feel as though the plot wasn't as developed as what it could have been. Therefore, I am taking it upon myself to give the boys and other characters more of background stories. As well as my OC!

Feedback is always appreciated!


	2. Pleasant Company

**|Reese|**

Andrea and I look silly at this long dining room table with our take-out food. _This thing's meant for eight people with crocheted place mats._

I spear a bite of ravioli from the plastic container and offer Andrea some. She shakes her head. My dad's the chef in the family, which kind of makes sense, since he's a spice importer. Andrea doesn't cook much. And when she does, it's always steak and potatoes, and I'm a vegetarian.

"Your father always used to talk about his childhood here," Andrea says.

"Not to me." He never wanted to talk about Ipswich, especially in the past year since my grandmother died. I didn't even know we still owned this house until a couple weeks ago.

"I guess he and Mrs. Beal were longtime friends," she continues with a tinge of judgment.

"I think she's sweet." I take a bite of garlic bread.

Andrea crinkles her nose. "Too sweet. I bet she's nosy as anything."

"I don't know." I'm not going to agree with Andrea about Mrs. Beal, who seems perfectly nice.

"Watch, she'll be sending her son over to gather information for her." Andrea shakes her head. Then, with an eye roll, she continues, "But I bet you wouldn't mind that."

I stop mid-bite. "I really don't care one way or the other."

"Uh-huh. Well, it wouldn't hurt you to try to make friends here." She dabs the corners of her mouth with her napkin and a small amount of cranberry lipstick marks the linen.

My fingers tighten around my fork. "You know it ends in disaster anyway." It's only a matter of time before someone gets hurt or their parents forbid them to spend time with me.

"People are disappointing. Still, you'll have to curb the attitude a bit. Smile, even." Andrea's subtle judgments poke at my fears that this place will turn out to be just like the City.

"Maybe I'll visit Mrs. Beal." I watch for a reaction. "Learn by example."

Andrea raises one perfect eyebrow, trying to assess whether I'm serious. Four months ago, she would have laughed at that, and I would have meant it as a joke.

I close the ravioli container with a sigh. As a child, I used to follow Andrea everywhere. My dad called me her personal fan club. Andrea loved it. She's always her best self while being admired. But since my dad was admitted to the hospital, there's been tension between us. And since I found out we had to move, it's ballooned into something I don't know how to step back from.

I push my chair away from the table and Andrea winces as it scrapes against the floor. I don't say anything as I exit the dining room, which looks like it was plucked from an old British movie. The only things missing are white-gloved servants and pleasant company.

It's a short walk to the stairway. I pass a bathroom with dark mulberry walls and another room I can only describe as a lady's tearoom, which looks out over a rose garden.

I grab the railing and take two steps at a time. When I reach the top, the only light is the one coming from my room, which glows a soft yellow at the end of the hallway. Andrea's room is at the end of the other hall, probably her way of trying to get as far away from me as possible. Andrea and I were never the cuddly types or people who worked things out with a heart-to-heart. But I can't say this divide doesn't bother me, either.

I wish my dad were here. These old rooms must be filled with his memories. _Maybe being here is good in a way. Distracts me from constantly worrying._

I push open my door.

"Seriously?" My once neatly folded clothes in my armoire are now in a heap on the floor.

I inspect the armoire latch to see if it's broken. It seems fine. _Maybe I just didn't close it all the way...?_

"That's one way to unpack," Andrea says, standing in my doorway.

"These were all put away an hour ago. Must've piled them too high."

"Maybe we have a ghost who doesn't like you." Andrea smiles. I'm sure she's trying to lighten the mood, but this move to Ipswich has left me a little raw.

"Hilarious," I say, and she turns down the dimly lit hall and away from me.

A pair of black sweatpants rests on top of the pile of clothes, and I trade my jeans for them. As I straighten the mess, I assess my new room. Pictures of my dad rest on the old trunk under the far window, and my mother's jewelry box is on the vanity. I try to imagine my parents hanging out in this room when they were young.

I put the last folded shirt back in its proper place and close the armoire, tugging on it to make sure it's latched. I pick up the small golden picture frame off my trunk before plopping onto my down-and lace-covered bed.

In the picture, I'm four-years-old and sitting on my dad's lap outside a café in Paris. His cheek rests on the top of my head as I hold my cream puff with both hands. He's just smeared a bit of cream on my nose, and I'm laughing. This was the trip where we met Andrea, before I started going to school and stopped traveling with him as much.

"How can I start school on Monday without you here to give me a pep talk?" I ask the picture. "These kids have to be nicer than at my last school, though, right? Sleep tight, Dad. I'll love you for always."

I kiss my dad's picture and put it down on my bedside table near a slender vase holding a single daisy-like flower with a dark center. _Looks like my doorknob._

I turn out the light.

* * *

I spend my Saturday afternoon exploring more of the house, rather than lounge around and watch Soap Operas with Andrea. I turned down her offer of over a bowl of oatmeal in the dining room. Besides, I'm fairly used to being alone, as of late, that I'm beginning to prefer it.

I'm currently ambling down the long hall located to the right of the main staircase of the house, and it's lined with lots of doors. Portraits of dead relatives hang on the walls - I can practically imagine them walking down here with only a candle.

I peek inside the fireplace room—which is probably the living room. There's a beautiful old rug, and the coffee table is an antique leather trunk. The next door in the hall is closed, and I push it open.

" _Whoa_." The room is huge, and on the left is a grand piano. There are a couple of seating areas with white antique couches that I can't imagine sitting on. Crystal decanters containing some sort of drink rest on a silver tray with small crystal glasses. I lift the cover on the piano keys and press an out-of-tune note.

At the far end of the room, between two tall windows, is a painting of a girl about my age. She wears a blue and white silk dress draped with lace and holds a bouquet of yellow flowers. Her expression makes her look at ease, like she knew the artist. I'm intrigued. Under the painting is a small table with an open book of poetry on it. The pages are yellowed. " ' _Black-Eyed Susan_ ,' " I say, reading the poem title. _The flower! Right, that's what she's holding. And come to think of it, that's the kind of flower that's in my room, too._

Something crashes behind me, and I let out a small scream. I whip around to find the keyboard cover on the piano slammed shut. _Not okay._

Andrea's muffled calls of my name can suddenly be heard and I sprint out of the fancy room, closing the door behind me. My hands shake.

"Yeah?" I reply.

"Door!"

By the time I get back to the foyer, Ethan is standing in the middle of the room holding a plate of cookies. "Don't laugh, my mother wanted me to bring these."

Andrea gives me a look that can only mean, _"I told you they were nosy"_ before she turns to leave. I might agree with her, but it seems that Ethan is willingly offering his friendship, and who am I to turn it down?

I take the offered plate. "I never laugh at cookies."

"Chocolate-chip butterscotch."

"Seriously? Your mother's amazing," I say loudly for Andrea's benefit.

"Yeah, if you ever get hungry, stop by. My mom kills it in the cooking department."

A strand of Ethan's ginger hair falls out of place and I stare at it for a second longer than I should. "You wanna stay for a bit?" I find myself asking before I can give it any thought. "I was just looking around the place." I can't remember the last time I invited someone to hang out with me.

If my dad were here, he would be grinning wickedly at us, and I would feel super self-conscious. Four months ago, I would have awkwardly avoided eye contact with Dad, now I only wish his eyes were here to avoid.

Ethan pushes the loose hair out of his eyes, smiling lopsidedly. "Sure. I love this place."

I remove the saran wrap on the plate of cookies, and he follows me down the hallway. "So, I only made it to the piano room," I inform him with a full mouth as we walk past.

I reach for the handle of the next door at the same time he does, and I almost smack him with the half-bitten cookie. He smiles. No one really talked to me in New York, _especially_ not guys who looks like Ethan. But the way he's enjoying my awkwardness makes me want to sock him.

He swings the door open to reveal a room covered floor to ceiling with books. Every dark-wooden bookshelf is packed, and there are even books on the ground and on the small tables. The only place without books is an old brick fireplace with bare wooden paneling on either side of it. It's not fancy like the fireplace in the living room, but I like it better.

"A library," I murmur breathlessly, and I suddenly find myself forgetting all about hitting Ethan.

"Every time I saw your grandmother she was in this room."

"It's strange you know more about her than I do." I put the cookies down on a nearby table.

"Why didn't you ever come visit?" Ethan wonders aloud.

I hesitate. I wonder what he knows about my family.

Ethan's fingers graze the top of an antique reading table surrounded by plush armchairs. A small cloud of dust rises. "It's okay if you don't wanna answer, y'know."

"No, it's fine. I just don't really talk about my family that much. I don't have any other relatives besides my dad and my stepmom." I can tell by the expression on his face that Ethan knows what happened to my dad. "Dad never wanted to come to Ipswich. So we just never came. And he and my grandmother were always fighting, so she never came to the City, either." I busy myself by looking through a pile of books.

"Charlotte used to talk about you," Ethan says.

I put down a book too fast and it slips off the top of the pile. _My grandmother talked about me? I didn't even know she knew anything about me._

We're silent for a couple of seconds. He doesn't push the topic, even though I suspect he wants to. I pick up the fallen book and walk to the old fireplace. There are niches built into it, like small brick ovens for pizza. There's no guard separating it from the rest of the room. The wood floor just ends and the bricks begin.

"I bet this was used for cooking," I say.

He laughs. "Yeah."

"That's funny?"

"I mean, it's kinda obvious, but then again, you're a city girl," he says playfully.

I laugh, happy to be off the topic of my family. "Oh yeah? What do you know about old fireplaces?"

"Well, we're kinda really into our history around here."

"Tell me about it," I grumble. "You guys are _obsessed_ with it."

"And I build furniture," he continues. "So I pay attention to these things."

"Really?" My surprise is genuine.

"Some of these fireplaces have hooks for hanging kettles and things." He ducks his head under the arched brick to get a better look. "Found one. Give me your hand."

I join him under the arch of the fireplace, and he grabs my right palm. His hands are lightly callused and warm. He directs my fingers to the left side of the arch. Crouched next to me this close, he smells like Christmas trees.

"You're right!" I grab hold of a small iron hook and pull. It moves in my hand. There is a loud creak and we look at each other. A gust of wind blows past us that smells like old leather and dried flowers.

I back out of the fireplace, not entirely convinced bricks won't fall on my head. "Holy…," I say, looking at the wall to the left of the fireplace. Part of the wood paneling has cracked open a few inches, revealing a door. "You have to _see_ this."

Ethan stands next to me, eyeing the wall with curiosity. "I heard some of the older houses have these; I've just never seen one before."

"How are you so calm? We just found a secret freaking door!" My volume surprises me.

I run my fingertips over the edges of the door. They match perfectly with the fireplace and the paneling on the wall. No one would ever suspect. I give it a push and it swings open. Behind it, a narrow hallway leads to an equally narrow spiral staircase. The walls inside are made of the same old brick as the fireplace, and the floor has wide wooden boards like the older parts of the house. I practically shake with excitement as I take a step in. If there was one thing I always wanted as a kid, it was to find a secret passageway.

"Reese!" yells Andrea from down the hall.

I jump out of the tiny, intriguing hallway and back into the library, pulling the door behind me. "Quick, help me."

Ethan grabs the edge of the door and pulls. But it won't close the last inch.

"Reese, you down here?" Andrea's voice gets closer. I really don't want her to see this. I haven't even investigated it yet.

"Take your fingers out a minute," Ethan advises, reaching into the fireplace. Just as I move my hand, he pushes the hook and the door clicks shut.

"I've been calling you." An annoyed Andrea enters the room. "We have errands to run."

"Okay." I try to act like everything's normal, but I'm pretty sure I'm sweating.

She looks from me to Ethan, and she notices something's up. At least there's no way she could guess it's a secret door.

"Now, ask your friend to leave and go take a shower," she demands, snubbing her nose, and then leaves the way she came.

I release a heavy sigh, my shoulders collapsing, and turn to face Ethan. "That was a close one," I murmur, laughing faintly.

Ethan smirks. "Definitely," he agrees. "So, walk me out?"

I lead the way as we exit the room, and traipse down the hallway. "Thanks, by the way," I find myself saying, before giving it any thought, peering over my shoulder back to him.

Ethan looks bemused. "For what?"

"For today. I haven't had this much fun in-" And I stop myself short, realizing that people my age don't explore old, New England houses on a whim.

Ethan chuckles. "If you thought this afternoon was fun, then you gotta come with me out to the Dells tonight."

"What's there?" I inquire.

"Back-to-school bonfire," he answers, shrugging. "It's a pretty lax scene that mostly consists of questionable music choices and lukewarm beer."

"Sounds promising," I drawl out sarcastically, crossings my arms.

"Does that mean you'll come?" Ethan questions, eyebrows raised.

"Let me run it by Andrea, and I'll let you know," I assure him with a nod of my head. "Here, give me your number." I retrieve my cell phone from the back pocket of my jeans and hand it to him.

He keys in his number and even goes the extra mile of taking a selfie with my phone. I can't help but laugh at the goofy expression he makes. "I'll be looking for a call," he informs me, then leaves through the front door.

* * *

 **A/N** : Chapter two for ya, folks! I know I said before that Caleb and the others would be in this chapter, but that's not how it worked out lol. However, they will definitely be in the next chapter! :)

Hope y'all like the story so far! Let me know your thoughts/opinions!

Until the next chapter,

-Dev.


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